in no holy relic
by Graffiti My Soul
Summary: In no holy relic did he place such faith - he chose his goddess over his king. Arthurian Legend, Guinevere/Lancelot, tiny implied bits of Lancelot/Elaine of Astolat and Arthur/Morgan.
1. accolade

**ACCOLADE.**

_inspired by 'the accolade' painted by edmund blair leighton._

* * *

><p>From beneath the fringe of his hair, he strains his eyes for a glimpse of the queen whose feet he kneels at. Sunlight streams from a window high above them, her hair glowing as brightly as molten gold. It hangs to her waist, loose and heavy, held only by an embroidered white ribbon.<p>

He hears the king's voice as if from a distance - "…by right of arms, King and Queen of Camelot, do dub you with Our sword, Caliburn, and by all that you hold sacred, true, and holy… Once for Honor… Twice for Duty… Thrice for Chivalry… Arise, Sir Lancelot!"

Lancelot stands, lifting his gaze to look upon the beautiful Queen Guinevere. She smiles sweetly. Someone hands her a sash the same tint as her gown, and Guinevere lifts it up towards him like an offering while laughter dances in her eyes.

"Accept this white belt, symbolizing the purity of your honor, the sign of the Order of Chivalry, and of your knightly rank and station." Her hands, skin pale as milk, reach to tie the sash 'round his waist. Lancelot holds himself still as stone, swallowing hard and praying for noble thoughts - his strength limits itself to his sword arm and heart.

The ceremony continues - a chain hung around his neck by Arthur (a metal noose, he cannot help but think, like the rope that would take its place if the king ever guessed, ever knew-) and a scroll read aloud, ringing out over the ever-present murmur of the court. Lancelot remembers none of the words - his ears are only for the soft whisper of "_my sir Lancelot_" from his queen's red lips.

Arthur does not hear her, but that is to be expected. arthur never listens, never realizes what preciousness he holds. For _their_ sake, the king's flaws are a blessing.

In the throne room, he voices, "your majesty," clad in silver steel, stiff and cold.

In the safety of night, Lancelot kisses the smooth bare skin of Guinevere's shoulder and murmurs, "my queen, _my lady_."

(His to cherish, to protect, to lie with on plush grass when they could not find silken sheets. Arthur could have her in name.)


	2. all other bliss

**ALL OTHER BLISS.**

_She seem'd a part of joyous Spring;_  
><em>A gown of grass-green silk she wore,<em>  
><em>Buckled with golden clasps before.<em>

_- Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, Lord Alfred Tennyson._

* * *

><p>The soft <em>whish<em> of ladies' silken gowns filled the air, accompanied by a bone flute's tremulous tones and the gentle plucking of a lyre. The entire court swayed upon the stone floors, the low murmur of their voices mingled with the chatter of taps from wooden sandal'd feet. King Arthur, even behind his half-mask of wood, was instantly recognizable. It was a humble piece that he wore, adorned with only eagles' feathers and carvings of the Boar of Cornwall, but there was no other man in the kingdom of Camelot who held himself as Arthur did. At least he was trying. Lancelot would give him that.

Even as he watched, Arthur threw his head back and laughed. The brunette woman beside him, clad in dull red and copper, tilted her lips and smiled politely. Her mask was an elegant concoction, handcrafted black lace and the crimson tree engraved into its base. She was becoming, but certainly not Guinevere, and Lancelot moved on to look throughout the rest of the room.

There were several fair ladies in the hall, many of the wearing the style that their queen favoured while in court. The masque was for Guinevere's nameday after all, and so it was only right to honor her however they might. On the other hand, it made Sir Lancelot's search all the more difficult. At the very least, there was no woman wearing the volto mask that Arthur had commissioned for his wife. He'd seen it himself while it still lay in the box, an ornate, heavy thing with intricate gilding and ivory wings along the cheeks. She had protested weakly, but the king had brushed it aside and presented it with a beaming smile. "For my queen, a mask of the dove, for purity and peace."

It would not have been right for a knight of the Round Table to laugh, but Lancelot had _dearly_ wanted to.

The sight of such a mask would be impossible to ignore, (which Arthur had _known_, he'd intended for it to identify the queen and ward off any suitors, since it would prevent them from claiming ignorance in the morning. Lancelot though, was no mere boy to grasp a lady's hand and dash away once the sun arose. He would not be deterred by such simple means) and the lack of whispering meant that Guinevere had not worn it after all. Among the many beautiful nobles, Arthur would never be able to find his wife. He did not know her well enough, no matter what he might think, and in any case the darkhaired beauty that he was spinning across the floor would hold his attention as long as starlight still streamed through the high windows.

But Lancelot might find her – and he _would_, he vowed. The thought of one night where he might hold her in open view, with no repercussions, was intoxicating – to dance with her in the castle in finery as she deserved, rather than a quick, mad frolic on the open fields in secret.

"Sir knight," came a lilting voice from his left. He whirled around, eyes anxiously seeking its owner. He knew the voice, he knew the soft touch that came to his hand (all too well, in truth) and their owner –

The lady before him was a dream of spring, sheathed in delicate green, golden hair heavy and loose as it fell over her shoulders. A crown of white carnations sat upon her head, a fragile columbine mask fastened into place beneath. It covered only the top half of her face, leaving rosy lips bared to his gaze, and he struggled with the desire to sweep down and claim them – claim _her_, before them all.

That was one wish that would have to go unfulfilled.

"My lady," he returned, speaking quietly. Nobody would hear them, but they were so very used to whispering. "The King, his majesty – does he – "

"I'm afraid I do not know what you mean, sir knight," Guinevere smiled slyly, even as she entwined their fingers and somehow made it look as if _he_ was leading her towards the swirling crowd. "Tonight I am only a woman, and I am not familiar with our King Arthur."

_Let tonight be ours_, her eyes pleaded from behind the mask. There was so little he could do, but Lancelot could grant her that much. One night.

_Nothing will never be enough, not after this_, he thinks despairingly, but he nods and smiles and pulls her into his arms in earnest, sliding in smoothly between two other couples. Her hair shines in the candlelight, flying wildly as they step and twirl like everyone else, _anyone_ else. The music crescendos, the lyre thrumming, and Guinevere laughs as they pass by Arthur. He does not even turn.


End file.
